A Shadowed Song
by The Fictionist
Summary: Phantom of the Opera Inspired. Ginny Weasley is an upcoming opera star with a mysterious tutor. Harry Potter is trying to get his Opera House running successfully after tragedy. A dark figure haunts them both.
1. Chapter 1

"Have you heard, the Viscount Potter is coming to visit?"

It was the whisper of the day, and Ginny felt her heart clench every time she heard it. There were all sorts of rumours around the young man - how he was handsome, single, how he hadn't visited his parent's opera house since it re-opened after the fire.

Of course, it wasn't necessarily the same Potter. And, okay, even if it was, that didn't necessarily mean anything. He might not even remember her, and, if he did, it might mean less to him than it did to her. There was no reason that he should even notice her.

Still, her heart was thundering in her chest like a standing ovation.

He wasn't there for them, they knew that.

"Do you think he'll put an end to the Phantom?"

"I've heard he's looking for a wife."

"Girls - Girls, concentrate on your rehearsal," Madame McGonagall admonished, as the whispers grew to a crescendo again. They grew silent, chastened, cheeks still flushed as they went through the routine again. Always listening out with half an ear. For blood or murder, or for the young Viscount with their current manager.

He was supposed to be arriving that day, to check in on rehearsals before the opera's new debut later that week.

The Opera House had belonged to his parents; Lily and James Potter, beautiful and talented benefactors of the arts. Yet, just as they grew to the height of their success, during a celebrated performance of Faust, there had been a fire.

Half the grand building had been utterly destroyed in the ravages of the flames, as the fire took the curtains and the velvet rows of chairs, and Mr and Mrs Potter too, with many others.

Ginny remembered reading about the tragedy in the paper, months before she ever met the young boy.

Apparently, this was the first time he'd returned to the scene since - over a decade later. He'd used his fortune to have his parent's opera rebuilt inch by inch, like it had been. Struggled to restore it to its former glory, to its beauty.

Then the accidents began happening.

Small things, at first. Falling props, misplaced scripts, that grew to more dangerous accidents until one of the stagehands was found hanging by their throat from the rafters.

That was when the first note came.

The Phantom of the Opera.

It was best not to think about it.

* * *

><p>When he finally arrived, it was with little fanfare.<p>

Quiet applause, and complimentary words to their star - a voluptuous woman named Celestina Warbeck.

It would be wrong to say he looked the same as ever, but there was something there. An aching familiarity that brought her instantly back to all the times before. To whispered stories in the dark, when he fled his Aunt and Uncle's house. To tentative smiles that grew brighter and bolder.

He'd listen to her sing, listened to all of her mad ideas for the future.

Humbled by the sheer enormity of all he'd lost in life so far, at the fragile age of ten years old. He'd moved away again when he was fourteen.

He didn't speak much about what had happened to him before, certainly not about the fire and the night he had lost his parents and everything he held dear to him.

But he'd been...charming. Charming, and so kind.

"I will very much look forward to the opening show," he told Celestina earnestly. "And hearing you sing then."

He didn't acknowledge the possibility of there not even being an opening show, with all that had been happening. Though he exchanged a glance with the manager, Fudge.

Celestina sniffed, but preened under the flattery nonetheless.

"I could be...persuaded," she smiled at him, "to give you a performance now. If you would like."

"Really?" he grinned at her, rather more boyishly. "I would be honoured, Miss Warbeck."

Ginny wondered what it would have been like if she was the one up there.

* * *

><p>Harry saw the chandelier fall in slow motion towards Celestina, their prima donna. Heard her scream echo in his ears, as she dived out of the way as the pieces shattered all across the stage.<p>

His eyes fixed above, mouth dry, catching the hint of a shadow. It could have just been that. He was sprinting before the thought was even done, his blood pounding in his head.

The chandelier crunched beneath his feet, ropes rough against his hands. The pathways and motions of the Opera House and the backstage were more familiar to him than they probably should have been to a proper young Lord, but every inch of this place seemed written on the crevices of his soul.

Up on the rafters, where he caught sight of the shadow again. The gleam of a bone white mask in the darkness, the flash of a tail coat. Breathing heavy, he lurched forward again as he heard someone scream at him to stop. To get down, to let it go.

"Move," he hissed, darting past one of the stagehands on the narrow beams, jumping haphazardly but surely through the air.

Yet, when he reached the figure - it was gone. His eyes searched the gloom for anywhere that the stranger could have gone, because he refused to believe in opera _ghosts and _-

The rope seemed to come out of nowhere. Looped tight around his neck and drawing up, his hand scrabbling up to his throat as his breathing cut. Balance completely knocked off by the sudden lurch of his weight, feet teetering on the edge of the rafters.

For a moment, he was sure that would be the end of all of it. Black spots danced in his vision, the rope rubbing harsh into his skin as people screamed below.

The next second, a steely arm had hooked around his waist, pulling him back against a hard chest. Suspended on the edge of falling, shattering on the stage below just like the chandelier.

"Let us not make it quite so easy, Viscount Potter."

Everything in his mind ground to a halt. That voice, like velvet and sin, too soft a baritone in his ear as the world span dizzyingly in his search for oxygen. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he was dead already.

"_You."_ His eyes strained to see behind him, wide in his head. Head tipped back by the force of the rope, pulled taut over the possibility of his murder. "No. It can't be-"

"Hush. You'll damage your voice."

_But he was dead. _

Harry's breath quivered raw in his chest, hands still at his throat. Trying to alleviate the pull of the hangman's noose as the Phantom held his balance. Toes hanging off the edge, unstable.

The silence held for a moment too, and he could feel breath against his cheek. Lips still parted in a frantic search for air. He felt a thumb traced over his lower lip, and the arm around his waist squeezed.

"I knew you'd come," the Phantom said quietly. There was no kindness there, just an ominous sort of satisfaction. "We still have a show to finish, you and I."

He saw a woman clamber up onto the rafters, on the other side of the stage where he'd come from - hair as red as flames too. Devastatingly familiar too. Staring at them, pale faced, frozen by the sight she must have seen in the gloom.

Tried to giddily figure out how this could be possible, how they could both be here - though, of course, it couldn't possibly be _him _at all, but that voice…

Colder now, than it was back then.

"_T-"_

"_Hush, Harry." _Lips pressed like with the stiff ice of a corpse against his cheek. The smell of something rotten, so sweet.

He couldn't breathe. God, he couldn't breathe, and the memories were tearing through his head-

Then the rope was cut and the other had vanished again, leaving him trembling on his knees in the rafters.

* * *

><p>Ginny didn't think before taking chase after them too.<p>

Still didn't believe it when she saw them in the darkness - saw the notorious Phantom, gleaming bone white in the gloom - pull someone back instead of pushing them over.

She was at his side, pulling him back towards safety within the space of a minute. Fingers carding through his hair as he heaved gasping breaths of air, his whole body shuddering.

"Ginny?"

It was the last question she had somehow expected, and for a second she froze. Still holding onto him; eventually tried for a smile.

"Hi," she managed. He stared up at her for a long moment, something in his expression. Too many somethings. Then he pushed himself up to sit, giving her a somewhat shaky smile back.

A thousand questions bloomed in her mouth, hedged in all the years that had passed since they last saw each other. There were murmurings and people trying to crane up and see them.

"Are you okay?" she asked, eventually, holding out a hand to help him stand. He accepted it, still staring at her wide-eyed.

"I'm fine," he said. "Is it really you?"  
>The breathlessness in his voice could be put down to the raw markings of rope around his throat, the blue tinge to his lips. The reverence could probably be put down to same giddy thing, but it still made her stomach flip.<p>

"You knew I wanted to be a singer. All those stories of your Opera House," she attempted to tease. "How could I resist?"

He gave a raspy sort of laugh, trembling hands pushing his hair out of his face. They ended up grinning stupidly at each other.

"...we should get down."

* * *

><p>"I can't do it!" Celestina cried.<p>

"Miss Warbeck, these things happen," Fudge tried desperately. Her eyes wide, as they all stood to the side.

"Happen!" she tossed her head. "Yes. They happen a _lot. _I nearly died."

"Miss Warbeck – Celestina," Harry approached her. "I understand that you are distressed-"

"_Distressed!" _It was an awful laugh. "I nearly _died! No_," she shook her head, tried to calm herself. "No. I can't do this! My nerves won't take it. Find yourself a new star!"

She flounced off the stage in a wrath of bundled skirts and hair.

The Viscount sagged to sit on the stage, still a little pale from earlier. Eyes distant, expression ravaged by something. Perhaps by being so close to his goal, only to be defeated by circumstance.

The Phantom must be a hateful creature, to do this.

He looked so lost, so worn. It made her chest ache - she'd stepped forward before she'd even thought about it.

"I could do it. I could sing the role. I know all the words." Maybe it was arrogant of her, but most of all she just couldn't bear that expression. His eyes darted up to her, surprised. She swallowed, but stood her ground, shoulders squared.

"You?" Fudge sneered. "I hardly think a _Chorus girl_-"

"She's really very good, sir," said one of the other girls. Voice dreamy, head tilted to the side. "She has a talented teacher."

Harry's eyes were fixed on her, considering. Tentatively hopeful, and something else entirely.

"Would you sing for us, please, Ginny?"

She steeled herself, and opened her mouth.

She would remember the look on his face for the rest of her life.

* * *

><p>AN: 15 chapters. All planned out for once, ain't that shocking? This one has been a long time coming. As anyone who knows me, knows.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll go and get the car for dinner, okay?" Harry asked her, smiling bright. The sunflowers (her favourite, she'd told him all those years before) he'd given her were splendidly cheery in comparison to the neat bouquets of roses she had received for her debut performance.

It had been absolutely exhilarating, and Ginny felt like her insides had been woven with stars, she was riding so high. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her stage make-up, and she'd just let her hair loose from how it had been pinned for the stage.

She nodded eagerly, and spun giddy when he hurried out after pressing a kiss to her cheek with another murmured "you were fantastic."

Set the sunflowers down on the desk, fingers trembling from adrenaline.

Hurried to get the stage make-up the rest of the way and make herself presentable, changing to normal clothes, heart pounding.

Standing up there...singing, with a full audience, had been the single best thing that Ginny had ever done. She couldn't stop grinning to herself like an idiot.

Everyone she knew was expressing their amazement, their praise. It was an intoxicating feeling, she could admit that to herself.

The grin only broadened as she heard her beloved instructor speak up.

"You did very well."  
>Quiet praise, but coming from the heights of his standards, that meant the world.<p>

"Thank you! It's all because of your teaching. I did everything as you taught me!"

"Pity that brave young suitor of yours seems so content to infringe upon our glory then," he said, with a silky sort of danger. Ginny stopped short, shoulders squaring. Head dropping as she let her fingers stroke along the flowers.

"The Viscount Potter is very generous," she murmured. "He means no harm."

"My dear Ginny," she could hear his sigh, even if she couldn't see him - as always. "You have come a long way, and your talent is beyond doubt, but do you really wish to squander your potential on this boy?"

"Of course not, but-"

"But-I will see no distractions from your lessons." That beautiful voice sharpened.

"He won't be a distraction," she tried.

"I forbid it, Ginevra. That's my final word on the matter," he said. His voice had shifted, to something terribly cold, and dangerous. Her stomach clenched. "Unless you are so confident that you seek to discontinue our lessons…?" He left it hanging.

All geniuses had their sticking points, and her acquaintance with him had proved him that. Sometimes, if she'd done particularly well on a class, she had been able to persuade him to play for her - from wherever he resided, because she'd never seen his face.

She only heard him. But with a voice like that, hearing was enough. He was incredible. It made the hair on her neck stand on end as he painted whole worlds with his singing.

But when she disappointed him...

"...no," she said finally. "I don't wish to discontinue them. Sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"Good girl."

She toyed with the sunflower for a moment longer, a thick lump in her throat that she refused to reveal. The silence slowly sunk into the room, before he spoke again. Sounding closer this time, closer than he ever before and - she gasped as she felt a hand touch hers.

"I think it's time that we met properly, don't you think?"

All thoughts of Harry and distractions vanished.

* * *

><p>She'd followed him deep into the catacombs of the Opera House, like following the lure of a siren's song.<p>

His hand was tight in hers, with long musician's fingers that could almost pass as skeletal. She still couldn't, however, see his face. That was the first part that gave her pause.

He had a bone white mask covering the upper half of its face, and the familiarity of it took her breath away. She just didn't really want to think about that. Obviously, he couldn't be - what would even happen if he was the Phantom of the Opera?

The Phantom was cruel, and hurt people. Her Angel of Music wasn't like that at all! He was kind, patient! She remembered with a nauseating clarity the storm in his voice when he told her that she wouldn't be having any distractions from her career. Swallowed thickly.

When they finally arrived, it was in a large chamber lit with candles. Deep, deep, below the normal runnings of the Opera House, in a labyrinth of tunnels that she was already hopelessly lost in.

There was a large piano, and a violin. Sprawls of composition paper on every surface, and a large bed. Odd bits and bobs that he seemed to have amassed over the years.

"You live down here?" surprise filtered first. It didn't, despite everything, look like a particularly cheerful or homely sort of place. Her chest ached for him, as she glanced at him again. Trying to get a read on him despite that mask.

"Yes," he said. "I find it suits my needs."

She waited for him to take his mask off, now that there was no chance of him being seen by anyone who wasn't her - but he made no move towards it.

"You're the Phantom of the Opera, aren't you?" The question spilled out, before she could catch it. Even when she didn't want to acknowledge him. She saw his lips curl in the gloom.

"Yes."

"You've hurt a lot of people."

"They were not good for my Opera House. I am only looking out for the best interests of the music, you make a far better star than Warbeck does and she is insufferable. She makes a mockery of the art."

Ginny stared at him. Turned her head away, heart pounding, as she moved around the room - examining this and that. A prickle of fear slid down her spine.

"Why have you brought me here?"

He could feel his eyes fixed on her, burning scarlet.

"I would...very much...like you to continue singing for me. You are perfect for my music," he murmured, approaching her.

She came across a photo on the desk. A handsome young boy and...Harry?

The next second, he had snatched it and the room felt about to crumble with the force of his wrath. He tucked the photo away carefully in his shirt. Ginny was reeling, despite the danger signs.

"That was the Viscount Potter!"

"Mind your own business, Ginevra."

She remembered, dizzyingly, the only time she had ever seen the Phantom actively spare someone's life instead of end him.

Harry was young in the photo. He had to be 10 - or younger. The Opera house before the fire, before Harry's parents had been murdered and the building destroyed. Before...he wore a mask.

Ginny's mouth ran dry.

The photo was a little charred around the edges, as if it had been pulled from the flames.

"You were there that night," she said, breathlessly. "But why - why are you attacking his Opera House now-"

"You will mind your own business."

Ginny's mouth slammed shut, and she stumbled back a few steps as he advanced on her - every inch of him radiating a lethal intent. A steel-trap of fingers closed around her throat. "Am I making myself understood?"

Those hellfire eyes promised all the terrible things that should happen should his will be disobeyed.

She stared back at him, breath quick in her chest, rasping and shallow beneath his constricting grip. He let go after a moment, but she suspected that might be to save her voice more than anything.

He stroked her hair, gaze still fixed on her as she trembled.

"Understood."

He gave her a singularly beautiful smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I wrote something for you. Would you perhaps indulge me by singing to it for me?"

Much later, she fell asleep to the sound of his playing like magic still. Like seduction.

* * *

><p>Mr Potter,<br>I congratulate you on the stunning debut of your new opera. I thank you for leaving my box open as requested, though you should not attempt to make contact with Miss Weasley again. I am sure you can agree that her performance was heavenly, and we would not wish to see that jeopardized. Do not worry, she is under the tutelage of her Angel of Music and will not be harmed.

Everything will go perfectly, if you simply continue doing as I have instructed. As I told Mr Fudge, Miss Brown also requires placement. Her footwork is disastrous, and she sets the whole stage off. See to it.  
>Yours,<br>LV

Harry's fist clenched around the note, crumpling. Fudge and the others hovered nervously around him.

Ginny had been missing when he returned to see if she was done, the sunflowers scattered on the floor. There had been no sign of her until hours before the next performance, and the only thing she would say was that she was with her singing instructor.

Harry could only imagine who that singing instructor was, and it made his chest ache. There was a bad taste in his mouth.

Of course, he didn't go near, however much he wanted to. He knew better - though he intended to get to the bottom of this. It was more than obvious that he was being mocked, and he already knew who by.

Unfortunately, that did nothing to help capture him. Though the fact of trying to capture still threw Harry off. When he came here chasing rumours of an Opera Ghost, he had not expected to find a far more personal ghost of his own waiting in the rafters.

But that couldn't change anything.

That night,he took great vindictive pleasure in settling himself in the Phantom's requested box.

* * *

><p>"You bait me, Viscount."<p>

Harry had expected the voice, even the words, but they still seized his insides in a vice like grip when he heard them. He held himself perfectly prone, resisting the urge to turn around

His fingers flexed on his chair, nonetheless.

Ginny's singing rang lovely and clear from the stage, stringing along every nerve ending in his body. Harry resisted the urge to rub his throat, too.

"You are foolish to reveal yourself, Tom."

"You have not told the police you expect me to turn up yet." He could practically hear the curl in that gorgeous voice. "Not yet. You want to talk to me first."

Harry's jaw tightened, mostly at the truth of that.

"You would not have come near if there were guards. Too obvious."

He listened for the sound of footsteps muffled over velvet, but the hand on his shoulder still took him by surprise.

"Sublime, isn't she?" the Phantom murmured.

"You've taught her well," Harry replied carefully. "I'll give you that. Why have you taught her well?"

"Why do you no longer sing Harry? You used to have a rather sublime voice yourself, if I do remember correctly...and I never forget a voice."

"Smoke inhalation."  
>The whole atmosphere seemed to tighten at that, and the other hand rose to stroke along his cheek.<p>

"You were the first that they got out. I highly doubt the damage was so severe."

"No," Harry kept his voice light. "It wasn't. Until I ran back in." The fingers stopped stroking abruptly. Harry took a sip of his complimentary wine to ensure he kept his composure. "I thought my best friend was still in there, wasn't about to leave him, was I?"

"You're lying." Nails dug into his skin, drawing blood. He didn't even flinch, laughed a little actually.

"I didn't get very far; it doesn't take very many breaths of smoke to knock a ten year old unconscious. The firemen carried me out. So, I'll ask again, Tom. Why are you teaching her? If you want to get at me, leave her out of this. She has done absolutely nothing to hurt you, she's a sweet girl. If you have some quarrel-"

"There have only ever been two voices I have wished to write music for, and you are hardly in a place to offer yourself up, despite your apparent need to play the hero," the Phantom said. Harry turned his head, eyes hard, and caught a glimpse of that bone white mask behind him again. "You can no longer sing, Harry. Do not test me when your voice is no position to save you."

There was a moment of silence.

"Will you let me see your face? I already know who you are. My ability to identify you cannot change anything."

"If you do as you are told, and run this Opera House as I command it, we will not have problems. No more accidents. That's what you came here for, isn't it? Just say yes, Harry. Be a good boy. She is mine, leave her to me. And leave the Opera to me, it is in good hands."

"You've changed your tune. You never knew I ran in after you, did you?" The silence was damning, and Harry lips twisted bitterly. He shook his head.

"You have one chance, Viscount. I suggest you take it. Next time, I will not be so forgiving to you."

Then he was gone.


End file.
